


Impressions

by katiebuttercup



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-04 01:53:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1762309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiebuttercup/pseuds/katiebuttercup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England has never stopped wanting to make a good impression on France</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impressions

Characters do not belong to me this is a work of fanfiction made solely for my own amusement. 

Kindly and brilliantly beta'd for me by saketini

France has always had the singular ability to make England feel like a little girl. It doesn’t matter how powerful she becomes, the lands she conquers or the gold she acquires or the enemies she crushes one glance from under gold lashes and England feels like that newly scrubbed little girl thrust into a gown to be presented to the fashionable French court.

 

She never quite measures up. 

 

And it never stops pissing England off that she still cares. 

 

She has lived a hundred lives, done imaginably beautiful, terrible, wonderful things.   
Stood on top of the world and plummeted to its depths in what often feels like the same breath. 

 

She has inspired fear and love in equal measure but those standards she holds close (France’s standards) are always unreachable.  
"Are you wearing that?" England looks down before she can stop herself, the glare that settles over her face is not only for France but for herself. 

She shouldn’t care. 

"Yes," England says at last, she looks fine. The Peter Pan collar dress falls to her knees — a plain pink colour but with contrasting black lace edging. It's nice.

France raises an eyebrow but says nothing, she doesn’t need to. 

England feels the weight of that almost comment all the way down the street and into the overpriced bistro on the corner. 

 

They settle into a corner booth, England prefers a booth to chairs. She busies herself with the menu she knows by heart when she feels France’s gaze on her and she steels herself.   
Finally France’s silence grates on her enough that she lifts her head. France is perfectly haloed by the light coming through the window, a glow settling over her features. England feels slightly sick. 

"What?" She’s pleased with the amount of annoyance in her tone. It makes her feel a little more in control. 

"America looks well don’t you think? She grew up to be quite the beauty. A little over the top but much preferable to being plain." She smiles, "although plain can have its advantages." 

She’s being mocked. England knows it’s just teasing but it sits uncomfortably in her stomach. 

"Hmm."

"You are cross?" It comes out as a question although she knows the answer. France knows her better than anyone. 

And doesn’t know her at all.

"I’m hungry," England says, "because you wanted to shop for six hours."

France lifts her hand, fingers almost but not quite touching England’s cheek.

England flinches from the almost contact. 

"Are you ready to order?" 

England smiles, bright and fake, happy to have some distraction 

"Yes please."

France doesn’t stop looking at her but England refuses to make eye contact. 

She’ll make up some excuse for her mood later and France will believe her. It’ll just be another conversation lost to time.

She glances down, France’s fingers rest next to hers on the table. A flick of her fingers and they’d touch. 

England wonders if anything would change if they did. 

Probably not


End file.
